(Author’s note: My apologies for doing this in 2 parts, but there was a bit of background that I thought was relevant. Although this isn’t directly related to my personal situation in dealing with PTSD, depression, and the like, it’s something very similar. Okay, to be truthful, just another brain fart from yours truly.)
This is a tale of a traumatic event, and the resulting consequences suffered by my best friend. It starts from when the two of us bonded, the traumatic event itself, and how it affected both our lives. Since we are inter-connected, we share the same goal of trying to make things better.
My best friend, Blu, was diagnosed with epilepsy when he was a 1 year old puppy. Still in the “cute” stage of puppyhood, but nearly full grown. In my humble layman’s thinking, I now feel the diagnosis of epilepsy to be inaccurate. You will have to bear with me as I let the whole story unfold.
It actually dawned on me, the idea that the diagnosis was incorrect, while laying on the floor trying to calm Blu while he was in the grips of an epileptic seizure. That happened this morning. It’s difficult to see him suffer through these, but nothing comparable to what he’s experiencing. The best I can do is offer him kind words, lightly stroke his head and look at my watch.
Why the watch? Because time is his enemy. The longer the seizure, the more potential damage to his brain. When the watch says it’s been 5 minutes and he’s still seizing, I need to scoop him up and get him to our regular vet. Outside of regular hours, I have to run him to the nearest emergency animal hospital. That hospital is 45 minutes away according to Siri, but I’ve made it in 35.
His seizures take control of all his muscles, as they are all drawn tight, his whole body involved. Every muscle is rigid, tensed up, his body entirely rigid. His paws scratch at the rug or the wooden floor as he tries to get up, but can’t. His face muscles are constricted, giving him the appearance of a gargoyle hanging from the corner of some long forgotten castle. He violently starts shaking as if he is possessed.
Four minutes long this time, then he falls asleep afterward, the seizure having drained all his strength.
After 5 years of seizures and numerous tests and treatments it hit me, and now I firmly believe he doesn’t have epilepsy. I have come to believe he has massive panic attacks, caused by a sudden flash back. He is suffering much the same as I do, and I suspect I have found the right diagnosis, which may lead us to a cure.
Let me back up a little, and bring you up to speed on his history, his life story so to speak.. Since he’s only 6 it won’t take more than 4 or 5 hours. Kidding of course, but there are key points that play into this, supporting my diagnosis. I’ll try to capture the salient points, to see if you come to the same conclusion.
I first met Mr. Blu Kyd when he was 11 weeks old. It was the Sunday of Canadian Thanksgiving, which, to be truthful, pales in comparison to the one in the US. A 3 day weekend, with Monday off, Columbus Day actually. Maybe a big family meal, maybe not. No huge feast with all the extended family, eating so much turkey you fall asleep 10 minutes into the football game that is played every US Thanksgiving.
So it was no big deal that my wife had left that Sunday morning and flown to Vegas for the big industry annual meeting. A full 7 days she’d be gone, and I was stuck at home alone. I was still working so I could fill my weekdays at the office, but the nights and weekends were long. I don’t do real well being alone in my head for extended periods.
At least I had put the bottle down for just over a decade by then, as drinking only made matters terribly worse. I was in the throes of the worst depression I had ever experienced, and knew it was going to be a long week. It was later discovered this new round of depression was due in part to a new medication I had started in August, three months before. This med was the very first one in an attempt to transition and fully embrace who I was.
The medication was CPA, or cyproterone acetate, and was used as an anti-androgen. The drug is only labelled in certain countries, Canada being one of those. It had not been approved south of the border, which is neither here nor there. CPA was used to reduce androgen, which controls the amount of testosterone produced. Here’s the thing though, there’s a serious side effect for 5% of the population taking the drug, it causes severe depression. And of course I fell in that 5% – as always.
This wasn’t known at the time, that CPA was the cause for being so far down and suicidal. It was the first time I had a detailed plan on how to go about ending my life. I had told my psychotherapist of my mood, but not my family doctor. Dumb.
During one lengthy session of psychotherapy, my shrink told me flatly I needed a purpose. I needed more to fill my days and make me whole or sane or both. “It can be anything” she said, just grab hold of something important and throw my heart and soul into it. “Don’t just rely on your music, everything you write is sad.”
So when my wife left early that day, and I was sitting watching an NFL game, it hit me. I needed a dog, a companion, a friend. It had been 4 years since our beloved Coton had passed away at 15 years old. Mrs. K and I had stayed in bed for a full week after his death, crying over the loss of our “child”. We both swore never again, even though I have had dogs in my home since I was 8 years old. Dogs love and accept you for who you are, as long as you love them back.
After 4 plus years of being without man’s best friend, I knew what would give me purpose, a new dog in my life. It made perfect sense to me. I couldn’t be trusted to take care of myself, but a little creature that was 100% dependent on me was a different story. Plus, as I saw it, having a dog would give me company on those lonely nights without Mrs. KYD.
So when the missus left that Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend, I grabbed the trusty iPad and began my search. There was no time like the present, I’d always been told. The first site I searched, Kijiji, turned out to be the go-to list for people wanting to sell their latest litter, as there were more damn puppies available than I ever imagined. Lots of different breeds in various states of adoption. Ready now, or in the very near future, if you want to.
One particular breed caught my attention, the French bulldog. Smart and easily trainable said the book I had read (yeah, right). They do not require a lot of exercise, hate the cold, and sleep 23 hours a day (more lies). I bought all the hype though, and sure enough, there was a breeder 20 minutes away with 3 puppies remaining from the litter.
An answer to my inquiry email came right back, telling me to call her cell at any time, which I did at 1:00pm. What a gracious woman, and even though it was Sunday before Thanksgiving, she invited me to her home. I was there by 3:00pm, and instantly fell in love with the one little male puppy, who seemed happiest chasing a 120 pound dog in circles around the yard.
When I picked him up he looked me in the eyes then fell fast asleep as I held him. That was that, all it took. Like he had picked me to be his friend, his caregiver. The breeder took a few pics on my phone, I gave her a wad of money, and the deal was done.
I had one request though. Since my daughter was getting married on November 9th and since we would be gone for several days, I asked if I could do the official pickup on November 10th. The day we were scheduled to come home. “Not a problem” was the breeder’s response, “see you then”.
I was elated driving home, I was now the proud owner of a French bulldog. Actually a Blue French Bulldog, which I found out later was a distinct “sub-breed” (is there such a thing?) with several traits that made them unique. Their fur was a steely blue color, they stood a little taller in the legs, and weren’t quite as stocky built as a regular French bulldog. Not quite as round so to speak.
Now I only had one small issue, telling the wife. She missed Coton tremendously, but had said we needed another dog like a hole in the head. She wanted to spend time together and travel, which is difficult when you have pets to take care of. Especially those that became so bonded they don’t like to be separated for more than an hour or so. At the time it wasn’t known that my flying days were about to come to an end. That’s another story in itself.
I took the cowardly way out, and sent her a picture of a little puppy, cropped so you couldn’t tell who was holding him. Me of course.
“Hey, look how cute this little dog is!” I texted. She had landed in Vegas a few hours ago and with the 3 hour time change had gone to lunch with a couple of girlfriends at the conference.
“Awwwww” she texted back. “I showed the girls and they think he’s adorable!”
“That’s great, because he’s now ours…I just bought him.” I replied.
Nothing. Not one message back at that point. The little text box would remain empty, she had gone silent.
Whoops, I thought to myself. I was going to get a tongue lashing over this one.
That was nearly six years ago, and Blu and I are both here. Yes I got a tongue lashing, and Mrs. Kyd now says:
“I certainly didn’t want another dog, especially at this point in my life, but I love them to death.” referring to both of the dogs now inhabiting our home sweet home. Lucy came the following year.
But let’s stay focused on Mr. Blu, and my reason for the blog.
The following spring, Blu, now 9 months old and still a puppy, had a major traumatic experience. I tell people it was a shared experience, as it involved both of us. He was still the only canine in the Kyd household at the time, his sister not even born yet. Different mother, same father, however they say that.
It was one simple 5 minute event. The two of us had stopped in to visit the girls at the office, who reacted as you would expect when seeing a cute little puppy. Ecstatic and full of love basically. We stayed an hour or so, I sat in my office and he slept at my feet, tired from all the lavish attention.
We left out the front door of the office, and trotted down the sidewalk lined with an assortment of small flowering trees. As we approached the parking lot, a huge gander, a male Canadian goose, flew off the corner of the office building directly at us, landing right at my feet in a goose-like attack pose.
I was caught off guard, but this wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this, from the same bird I might add. There’s a mated pair of Canadians that had been nesting on one corner of the office for the past 4 – 5 years. They hauled big sticks and twigs up there for about 3 months and stayed put until the littles goslings would jump off the roof and waddle off to the big lake on the neighboring golf course.
Geese are very territorial and very protective. Plus they can be quite aggressive, especially the gander. It was not uncommon for the male to sit above the warehouse customer service door, hissing at any one walking in or out. Or attacking car and truck tires, often chasing people who had to jump in their car to escape. With their wings outspread and their long toothy beak, they’re quite the imposing creature.
This time was different though, as I had a young pup on the end of the leash who had never seen such a big and nasty animal. While usually I could keep it away with my cane, that wasn’t an option today.
The goose didn’t want either of us there, especially a dog, and continued to run at us both. It wasn’t so much honking at us, but rather it hissed and thrust its long neck out. I kept it at bay with my trusty walking stick, trying to make it to the car, when Blu freaked out and tried to run in the opposite direction.
That enticed the goose even more, and now the issue was trying to keep between the gander and my poor puppy.
The battle escalated when Blu managed to wrap himself around one of the shrubs. Three quick circles and he was held fast against the trunk.
More attacks, fended off with more dagger like thrusts of my cane. Now what the heck can I do? I was hoping someone inside would have heard the commotion and come to our aid, but no such luck.
I was just bending over to try to free the little Frenchie, when I saw the goose take flight 15 feet away, flying straight for me. It was about 3 feet off the ground and the only option I could think of was a big damn kick right in the old breast bone. Just like a punter on a football field. I hate to admit it, as I’m not one to hurt animals, but this was now fight or flee, and we were in no position to flee.
It did the trick though, and the startled bird went backwards and sat a dozen feet away in a daze. I seized the moment and somehow got Mr. Blu untangled, swept him up in my arms and ran off to the car.
We both sat in the driver seat for 15 minutes, me trying to catch my breath and Blu still trembling in fear. You can imagine being attacked from both the ground and by air by a 25 pound creature with a 5 foot wingspan.
That one attack was imprinted on the dog’s mind forever, and for the next 6 years of his life has greatly influenced his behavior. His reaction to big birds now that he’s full grown is one behavioral issue. Then what started as a “tic” or reaction to different sources of light, grew to a point where we kept the blinds down and bought all non-reflective plates and silverware. A period of uncontrollable spinning took place for a year, only to be replaced by his current “epileptic” type seizures.
This dog of mine, my best friend, had his share of problems. I swear most of those problems are caused by that one event, where he feared his life was in danger of being attacked by a damn Canadian goose.
He and I with our PTSD. Quite the pair. No wonder he sleeps up against me at night when we both pass out in bed. Or when I pull him up on the couch for a nap.
I am writing about his symptoms and treatments in a little more detail, just for those interested in behavioral science. Funny how things progress in a dog, not that different from my own.
My purpose in life, and if keeping him happy is all I have, it’s all I need.